


Burning hands

by Feathersinthetardis



Series: Stories of Thedas: Volume 2 Clara Lavellan [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Character Study, Clara Lavellan, F/M, Fluff, Light Angst, Magic, One Shot, POV Solas (Dragon Age), Spicy magic, Stolen Moments, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29780355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feathersinthetardis/pseuds/Feathersinthetardis
Summary: Stories of Thedas Volume 2: Campfire promptSolas POV - Solas watches Lavellan play with fire. Fluffy pining, terrible self control and magical shenanigans ensue. Peppered with some character study of the prideful egg. Set in canonverse, some time after first visit to Val Royeaux.“As the flickers of orange, yellow and red fluttered across her skin, he felt the overpowering urge to reach out and touch them, to feel the heat of her and watch the patterns reflect from her hands to his. To see her magic dance across his own skin.”
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Female Lavellan/Solas
Series: Stories of Thedas: Volume 2 Clara Lavellan [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2188827
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	Burning hands

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt thanks to the amazing Manuka (@Nuka_Honey on Twitter).

Solas sat down on the worn-down log, pulling off his backpack and opening it to find the salve he wanted. Clearly this spot had been well used by travelers as a campsite, its proximity to the river and shelter in the valley making it an ideal place to break a journey. He wondered which of them would have lingered in the fade as artifacts of spirits’ attention, and what stories of this bountiful and well-traversed valley they could tell a keen listener. Judging by the heaviness of his eyelids and ache in his temples, this would be a question he would soon know the answer to. 

It had been a long day in the Hinterlands, with far too few breaks and far too many bears. Lavellan had decided to follow up on Leliana's lead, and they had tracked down the Grey Warden, Blackwall. The man was now standing several hundred feet away talking to Varric, while he rhythmically lifted, positioned and chopped logs of wood they had gathered for the fire. The axe swung methodically; Blackwall scarcely needed to look at what he was doing, every _thunk_ hitting home and striking each segment in two with remarkable precision. Clearly the man had a skill for this work, and Solas wondered idly whether he had been a lumberjack or carpenter before training as a warrior. Blackwall paused his machinations to throw his head back and laugh at something Varric had said, and the metal Gryffon crest on his chest caught the moonlight with a dull sheen. Solas frowned, rubbing salve into an insect bite on his ankle. These wardens were yet another seemingly unavoidable annoyance he was going to have to factor into his plans. 

He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his fists at his sides, as his throbbing temples responded to the added weight of yet another obstacle that he could not have foreseen. He knew he would feel better after a drink of water, but his waterskin was empty and Lavellan – Clara, she preferred this name – had gone down to the river to bathe, the three men staying behind to give her some privacy. He looked up into the embers of the fire the scouts had prepared for their arrival. It was burning very low, the wood Blackwall was chopping would be needed soon. 

He was just debating whether to take a long walk further upriver to refill his bottle, when he saw Clara’s head cresting the riverbank, and watched as she walked back to camp. She had removed her leather jacket, which was now slung over her arm, and her footwraps, which she carried in her other hand. She wore a loose yellow cotton tunic, tucked haphazardly into her trousers, and her small bare feet still glistened with water and a thin layer of mud as she padded her way back to the tents. He knew from experience that she preferred to walk barefoot, even over wearing her open toed footwraps. Her eyes were on the ground, eyelashes casting shadows over the distinctive marks of Mythal’s vallaslin on her cheekbones. She didn’t see Solas smiling sourly to himself, as he glanced down at his own toes. He wondered not for the first time at the ability of the Dalish to conserve the most trivial of customs and yet forget so much else. 

Clara ducked into her tent to drop off her armor, returning a moment later running her fingers through her damp shoulder-length brown hair and seemingly lost in thought. Solas looked back down at his feet again, not wanting to be caught staring at her. It was important that she not feel uneasy around him. He would need her trust in order to stay close to the center of operations of this _inquisition._ And of course, he wasn’t letting that anchor out of his sight. He smiled to himself, thinking of the irony of keeping his eyes on the anchor but off the woman it was attached to. 

“What’s the joke?” her voice broke into his private musings. 

He looked up, finding her unusually large brown eyes fixed on his face, a small smile curving up the corners of her lips. She stood in front of him and held out a freshly filled waterskin which he accepted gratefully, taking a long drink of the fresh cold water. 

“So, what were you smiling about just then?” she pressed again, still smiling down at him. She was never one to let up on a line of questioning. He returned the grin and paused briefly to take another sip before answering, deciding on how best to phrase his thoughts. 

“I was just thinking about some of life’s many small ironies,” he said, looking up at the sky as though to illustrate the vague path his thoughts were taking, in order to deflect any further questions on the matter. He was tired, and half-truths said before those overly inquisitive brown eyes took more careful steps than those used to avoid waking a sleeping bear. 

On cue, her eyebrows quirked upwards, forming a small pucker between them and turning her whole face into the question he had expected. He gave a small non-committal shrug and rummaged around in his pack for something to do. 

Always questions with this one. Initially, he had been skeptical as to the sincerity of her interest in his “studies”, as Leliana and Casandra uneasily termed his knowledge of the fade. However, the open candor in her reems of questions and the intelligent and provoking responses to his answers had led him to understand that in this small innocuous form resided a mind of surprising clarity. Upon realizing this slightly disquieting fact, he knew he would have to be particularly careful sharing information with her; there wasn’t much that missed her attention. And yet there was something in those wide dark eyes which seemed to draw information out of him like a spindle spinning thread. 

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t find her attention gratifying. How much he enjoyed it, he had not quite realized until their first day scouting the Hinterlands. Her empathy, assertiveness and stubborn-headedness were easy traits to both admire and chastise, though he had done neither in favour of observing her behaviour to those around them. It was imperative that he understand her if he was to drive events in the necessary direction. He had noted her curious questioning of all those she had spoken to. This had irked him, and he hadn’t understood why. Wasn't it to his advantage to have the bearer of his anchor an intelligent and knowledgeable being (as knowledgeable as anyone could be in this dull and severed reality)? Wouldn’t that improve their chances of defeating Corypheus, and thus leading to his reacquisition of the orb? 

And yet, it had bothered him, like the endless bites from the flying insects around the numerous water bodies in this region. He had toyed with the idea that he found her nosy, but her questions were never overly personal or intrusive, and seemed mainly aimed at furthering her understanding of the people, places and phenomena around her. It wasn’t until that evening that he had understood the source of his disquietude. The two of them had been sitting at the fire, finishing their meal, and she had resumed her usual questioning of his knowledge of the fade. Questions and answers had flowed easily between them, and he had felt that now familiar buzz of surprise and pleasure with each successive query she put fourth, her voice and gaze lulling him into a state of confidence he had not expected to feel in this strange and foreign world. Once she had retired into her tent, he had sat staring into the embers of the fire, musing idly at his state of comfort and the strange buzz of excitement he had felt anticipating when next they would get a chance to continue their discussion. He had smiled at the idea that she never seemed to tire of questioning him, when a snide thought had recalled to him that he had not been so happy in observing she showed similar interest when talking to others. The contentment had suddenly soured and his pride in being the object of her undivided attention had faltered. This had led him to recognize the unpleasant sensation he had been grappling with all day: jealousy. 

This abrupt comprehension had shaken him. Upon further introspection he had realized that alongside this previously undiagnosed feeling, others had been developing for her that were far less unpleasant but far more dangerous. Suddenly, innocuous jealousy was the least of his problems. This needed to be stopped before it had any chance of starting something he could never afford to see through. His path ahead was clear, there was no turning back. Of course, there were various small deviations and possibilities he would have to navigate as they presented themselves in order to achieve his goal. This could not be one of them. 

Another reason for his gaze not to linger too long on the woman bearing his anchor. 

The crackle of sparks from the waning coals brought his attention out of his uneasy recollections of previous epiphanies over campfires back into the present, and onto the _presence_ beside him. 

Clara had sat down by the fire and now leaned forward, with her hands cupped over the surface of the embers as though seeking to warm them from its heat. However, he immediately felt the familiar ripple of magic ebbing around them and shivered when he realized how quickly he recognized the feel of it as _hers_. As with the familiar brush of a lover’s fingertips across the back of his neck, he felt his own mana and body responding to its intoxicating flutter instinctively. He shook himself inwardly and tried to focus on something else. 

He consciously drew his eyes to her hands (in order to prevent them from travelling elsewhere), where the visual signs of her magic were now manifesting. Assuming she was trying to bring the dying embers back to life, he was about to interrupt her to inform her she was more likely to get blood from a stone, when something in the dancing lights across her fingers made him pause. 

He could see she wasn’t trying to direct heat towards the fire, an observation confirmed by his sense of her mana flowing around them. Instead, she was merely shifting heat and air around the coals, causing ebbs and flows in their lights to form flickering patterns and glowing hues. As she continued, lights matching those in the embers crept slowly around her fingers, twisting and swirling into patterns that formed and broke in lazy sensuous tendrils across her skin. His gaze wondered to her face, where the glow of the fire had turned her olive toned skin into a soft lustrous orange, a small blissful smile curving her lips and forming dimples in her cheeks. 

Solas found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the sight before him. He marveled not only at the quiet beauty of the intoxicating scene but also at the serene sense of ease that emanated from her. She was completely relaxed, the pattern of her spell clearly as second nature to her as breathing. He had seen her use magic plenty of times while fighting off enemies and had noted the skill and grace with which she utilized this now frighteningly rare gift. Yet this was different. 

He realized why this was so strange: in this absurd and twisted paradigm of the world he had woken into, magic was a thing of fear and shame. In the seldom occassions he had seen it used, it was only ever wielded in darkest secret for mundanely practical purposes, or as desperate acts in the heat of battle. And yet here she sat, calming drawing it in and around her for the simple purpose of creating beauty for her own pleasure. It was such a small act of defiance compared to the chaos that had plagued the continent in the past year, but the way her little private rebellion flowed quietly from her in his presence caused a shiver to run down his spine. Heat spread through him as though the embers reflected in her eyes had seeped into his blood stream. He watched the patterns spread further up her bare arms and a heavy pounding filled his ears as he felt his face grow warm. 

Strange. He had seen and even used similar magic before. In Arlathan, such displays and more were commonplace occurrences. But he had never seen the like _here_. Now. 

“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked her quietly, his voice coming out lower than he had expected. 

She jumped slightly at the sound of his voice, her hands twitched and he felt her mana fading as her gaze snapped to meet his. The dancing lights started receding down her skin like water droplets down a sheet of glass. 

“Don’t stop,” he breathed quickly, the command leaving his lips before he could stop it. 

A light blush of colour heated her cheeks as her eyebrows once again quirked into that ever-questioning expression, but she dropped her eyes back to the fire and squared her shoulders slightly. He felt her magic shift again around them, flaring ever so slightly stronger than before. A small, satisfied smile tugged at her lips as she sat up straighter. It was endearingly obvious she knew she’d impressed him, and that she liked this. Her mana swelled around him, and this time instead of simply brushing against him as an unnoticed observer, he felt it pulling almost teasingly against his own, as though inviting him to join her. He wondered if she was doing this consciously, though he suspected not. For some reason this thought excited him more. His fatigued body felt suddenly awakened, and though the small part of his mind that hadn’t succumbed to this maddening tension managed to hold him back from responding in kind to her magic, it could not stop him leaning in closer to her. 

“I just liked experimenting when I was alone,” she said softly with a small shrug, still gazing intently at the fire. “I always liked the patterns and colours that fire makes, and I wanted to control them or play with them, I’m not really sure which. Once I got that right, I wanted to see what they would look like on my skin. And slowly, I figured it out.” 

At the word “skin” his eyes drifted lazily down from her lips where his thoughts had briefly been focused back to her hands. As the patterns of orange, yellow and red fluttered across her skin, he felt the overpowering urge to reach out and touch them, to feel the heat of her and watch the patterns reflect from her hands to his. To see her magic dance across his skin. 

“I can show you how if you like,” she said in a slightly teasing tone, flexing her fingers as she spoke. 

He looked up, and saw her smiling coyly at him, clearly having noticed the way he stared at her fingers. Ah. Had she mistaken his attention as disbelief and awe at her superior knowledge? A thrilling idea being led by this captivating young woman. But more powerfully, he felt pride swell in his chest and a smile spread across his lips as he thought about all the things _he_ could show _her_. 

“I believe I can manage,” he said quietly, keeping his eyes on hers as he reached his hand out over hers, hovering it a hairs breadth above her skin. 

He allowed himself to reach out with his mind as he had been burning to do ever since he felt the first whispers of her magic a few moments earlier and felt a thrill as his mana entwined itself with hers. The feeling sent ripples of pleasure through his body, and he saw her eyes widen as she felt the connection too. He wondered if she’d ever done this before with another mage, and the idea that she hadn’t made his head spin. 

The patterns on her skin froze momentarily in response to the new influence on their trajectory. Then they flushed and coalesced into more distinctive swirls and twisting circles, edging higher and higher up her arms and under the sleeves of her tunic, the orange glow shining faintly through the thin cotton. He held the patterns he wanted to see gently in his mind, marveling at the opportunity to paint light across this most obliging of canvases. A sly thought curved his lips as he thought of how, if he’d had access to the full scope of his powers, he could have made her _feel_ every shifting brush of light against her skin instead of simply watching them slowly coat her arms in their glowing fire. The thrumming heat in his head intensified and he felt it pulling him inorexably closer to her over their outstretched hands. 

He inwardly cursed his meagre abilities’ failure to follow through with his desire, though this slight tinge of envy for his past prowess did not dampen his spirit for long however, there were far more pleasant possibilities to dwell on. As the lights danced, jumping from freckle to freckle following the now greedy movement of his eyes across her skin, he suddenly thought of what it would feel like to trace their path with his tongue. She would certainly feel _that._ This thought caused the lights on her skin to race and flare and she gasped quietly, immediately drawing his eyes to her lips which had parted in surprise. The orange glow of their magic highlighted their curves, and he saw with a slight shiver the small indentations below her lower lip where she had been biting it a moment before. His gazed fixated on the slight glistening moisture at the center of her parted lips. All his thoughts were consumed with the overwhelming need to feel their heat and wetness on his skin, and he became intently aware of certain parts of his anatomy responding to these intentions. 

He almost _almost_ lost himself and leant in. 

But the snap and crunch of approaching footsteps behind him wrenched his attention back to reality, as Varric and Blackwall approached the fireside carrying the wood to cook the meal. 

“How many mages does it take to light a fire?” Varric said jokingly, staring pointedly at their outstretched hands. 

Solas pulled his back onto his lap, and he saw Clara tuck hers under her knees, biting her lip again and grinning sheepishly over at the dwarf, who’s sharp gaze flitted between her and Solas. 

“Far fewer than the number of ales it takes to wade through _Swords and Shields,”_ she quipped back suddenly with a wicked smile on her face, surprising all three men with her quick shift in character. Varric laughed and mimed tipping his cap to her. 

“No flies on you, Bright Eyes,” he said, slipping his crossbow off his back and leaning it on the ground. “And no arguments here, it would take a particularly voracious woman with a heavy sword arm to ever get me to pick up the pen for that work again.” 

Blackwall had been observing their easy camaraderie from a slight distance, though he now stepped forward and placed the pile of firewood next to the dwindling pile of embers. 

“No point in trying to restart that, you’re lucky we brought more wood to burn,” said Blackwall with an air of casual indifference, but Solas caught the unease in his eyes as he glanced quickly between the fading whisps of light in the air where their magic had been and Clara’s hands. Solas knew Clara had noticed this too; her eyes fell to the embers, her smile tightened and her shoulders hunched very slightly. Blackwall’s reaction, though small, was the type of response that had quelled all such fires across this fade-starved land. Fear and bravado. It felt like a heavy weight in his stomach, reminding him of how _wrong_ _wrong_ _wrong_ this world was, to destroy a moment of innocent beauty in the fear of the unknown. There was only one way to fix it, and it could not be done in stolen moments of soft rapture by a fireside. He stood up and smiled amiably at the human. 

“You are quite right,” he said cheerfully. “It was an exercise in futility that could only lead to frustration and despair.” 

He didn’t look at Clara. He didn’t want to see disappointment or the _questions_ in her eyes. Blackwall frowned slightly, and Varric gave a gruff snort. 

“You’ll get used to Chuckles here,” he said slapping Solas on the arm. “Life and soul of the party.” 

The rest of the evening passed by in companionable conversation. Solas avoided eye contact with Clara as much as he could and retired first to bed. He sat up on his bedroll trying not to listen to the easy sound of Clara’s laugh or the warm tones of her voice. He pulled a sketch pad out of his backpack in the hopes that drawing would calm his mind. But all he could see on the blank page in front of him were wide brown eyes with embers dancing in their reflections. He shoved the pad away in frustration, snuffed out the lantern with a flick of his wrist and rolled over to lie down. 

He would lose himself in the fade, as he had done so many times in this strange new future, where the only respite was in sleep and the knowledge that he was moving towards his goal. He would seek out those travelers who had built their fires here before them and learn what he could about this foreign but familiar land. 

And lose himself he did. But not in strangers and tales of campfires. That night the fade danced and glittered with the embers of tantalizing fires that burned without and within. Of warms eyes that saw everything and hands that roamed over patterns of fire and skin. 

**Author's Note:**

> So they said “campfire” and I said “slow burn” 😅
> 
> First time writing from Solas POV, I hope I didn’t do him dirty. Also got a bit worried about it being too male gazey, but then I thought “Well, Solas is a male” and also feel like it's so early on in their relationship he is still not sold on her (or everyone else for that matter) being “real people”. Sigh. Such an interesting character, but so very flawed. Was lots of fun trying to think like him. Silly egg.
> 
> As you can see I am not good at short drabbles (I intended this to be <1k lmao) so I definitely won’t be doing all of the prompts on Nuka’s lovely list. I really do hope and intend to do more in the next couple of months however, if work/life allows. Most planned for more Solavellan, with possibility of smut if I’m feeling brave.
> 
> Also didn’t intend for her travelling party to be a sausagefest initially, but Varric and Blackwall just fit here.
> 
> Characters belong to BioWare, except for Clara, though I shoplifted her name and general appearance from Doctor Who because I am high-key in love with Jenna Coleman.


End file.
